Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  “I’ll probably like the Metropolitan, the way you do. I think our tastes run alike, don’t you, Byrch? Besides, I’m not Bridget.”

  “Thank God,” Byrch said reverently. Like him. She said they had like tastes. He would never understand, even if he lived to be a hundred, how he could love her so much and she . . . and she . . . He shouldn’t be thinking about that now. He was making small inroads today. Better not to spoil things with hasty remarks and negative thinking.

  For contrast, Byrch took Callie into neighborhoods where the common man lived and traded. A particular favorite of Callie’s was the East Side. She proclaimed that it was like a bazaar out of the Arabian Nights. She was intrigued by the crush of people, the running, shouting children, the cries of the street vendors hawking their wares—pickle vendors with their rolling vats of sour cucumbers, sweet gherkins, and sour green tomatoes; candymen tempting the tongue with licorice sticks, fudge, chocolate, and the ever popular Hoarhound Drops. Carts were piled high with fruits and vegetables, and from bakery trucks came the delicious aroma of rolls and bread and scrumptious cookies.

  A community of Jews lived along Allan and Hester Streets. Women wearing black shawls over their heads argued and bargained for knishes and sweet potatoes and chickens and geese. Water dripped from the melted ice of fish carts, and a man peddled hot ears of corn from a vat set onto wheels. And as always Byrch was at her side, watching her with merriment.

  As the sun started to set, Byrch announced that it was time to return home. Callie was relieved. She was going to enjoy lying in her bed tonight, thinking about everything she had seen and felt during the long day. She nodded gratefully and leaned her head back on the carriage cushion. “I had a marvelous day, Byrch. Thank you so much for taking me. I can’t wait to write to my mother and tell her all about it.”

  “It was my pleasure, Callie. You made me see things I never saw before. I enjoyed the outing as much as you did.” Without thinking, Byrch put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close. At first Callie stiffened. Then she relaxed and laid her head against his arm. How good he felt. How wonderful he smelled. It was all right, just for a while. For the moment. When they reached the house on St. Luke’s Place, things would return to normal. She would go to her room; Byrch would go to his study. They would meet downstairs for dinner an hour later after they freshened up, and then they would go back to their separate rooms. For now, this small luxury of being close to Byrch was all right.

  The rest of the honeymoon week passed in a blur for Callie. The long days were filled with exciting, wonderful places to visit. Tender, small, intimate moments with Byrch were something to treasure alone at night after all the lights were out. Not once, by look or deed, did he try to approach her when they returned to the house. He seemed to change, just as she had, into a cool, aloof person she barely knew. If only she could reach out to him, ask him to come to her room, tell him what she felt. She couldn’t. She couldn’t take that chance, that risk, ever again.

  She was sorry to see the week end in many ways, but glad that she could finally sit down and write in earnest. She was now a working woman, being paid a salary, and she had to do her best. It was all she had left. Her work.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Loretta Cummings hung up the dish towel to dry and set about making a pot of tea for herself. This was her favorite time of day, this short respite before Jasper came home. It was her time to sit down, have a cup of tea, prop up her plump legs, and daydream just a little.

  She had been so happy since Jasper and she had moved out of the Benedict Hotel near Wall Street and come to live in this modest house with its own garden and back terrace. Jasper complained that it was so far uptown it was almost like living in the country, but Loretta knew he was happy here too; he’d told her. Her relationship with Jasper almost spanned a decade—the happiest ten years of her life—and it mattered not a whit to her that they weren’t married. Marriages didn’t guarantee love. Not the kind of love she shared with Jasper.

  “Loretta!” she heard the front door slam and his familiar footsteps in the parlor.

  “In the kitchen, Jasper,” she called, a worried frown creasing her forehead. Home at this hour of the day! Something must be wrong. He came into the kitchen, filling the door with his bulk. He was a handsome man, white-haired and rosy-cheeked, and since she’d been watching his diet, he had lost inches from his girth. She rushed to him. “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

  The concern on Loretta’s face pleased Jasper. It did a man good to know that he was important to someone, but he hurried reassure her. “I’m fine, really. I just came home because I need to talk to you. I need to hear some of your good common sense.” He took her into his arms and hugged her, kissing her smooth cheek and inhaling the fragrance of her cologne. “Sit down, drink your tea, and I’ll do the talking.”

  “Here, you have the tea,” she insisted. “I’ll make myself another cup, the water is still hot.”

  Jasper accepted gratefully. Loretta was the most unselfish woman in the world, and it was his lucky day when he’d found her. While she busied herself with the kettle, he watched the sway of her generous hips and smiled at the strands of silver that were appearing amidst her ash-blond curls. He loved this buxom woman whose smile could turn his world right side up. She sat down at the table opposite him and waited for him to speak.

  “Did you read the Clarion today?” he asked her.

  “I was about to look through it now. Why? Is there something in it I should know?”

  “I want you to read a particular article and tell me what you think. It’s by that reporter, C. James. We’ve talked of him before. You mentioned to me that there’s something different about the man’s writing. I want you to read this and tell me if you can decide what it is.”

  Loretta read the article slowly, making certain nothing escaped her. “I still feel it, Jasper, but I don’t know what it is. It certainly is a heart-tugger, isn’t it? That poor soul who lost her dressmaking business. And what about those families who lost everything in the fire? Sometimes I find myself crying over Mr. James’s articles.”

  “I think I know what it is that’s different,” Jasper said quietly. “Take another look, Loretta. Isn’t there something you recognize? A style, the way the words are put together? The emotions?”

  Loretta allowed her eyes to travel from the paper back to Jasper. “Of course! C. James is a woman! Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Imagine, a woman working for a newspaper. It’s wonderful! But of course, it’s supposed to be a secret since she isn’t using her full name.”

  “I think so. I think C. James is Callie James, Mary’s companion. I’ve been so remiss, Loretta. I always thought the world of that girl, and I’ve wanted to go and see her since Byrch told me she was staying at his house. I feel worse now that he’s married her. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not after that scene with Rossiter when he told me I had a grandson and that he’d died in a fire in Shantytown, of all places. I had a grandson and didn’t know it. I wasn’t allowed to mourn for my own grandson. I can’t understand why Callie didn’t come to me for help. I’ll never understand that as long as I live.”

  Loretta stood and moved to Jasper’s side, touching his shoulder comfortingly. “You shouldn’t blame the girl, darling. You have to think of the position she was in at the time. Remember what your wife said and did. You can’t blame the girl for something that was Rossiter’s fault and your wife’s. It pains me to say this, darling, but it’s true. From everything you’ve told me, Callie James was a good girl caught up in something she couldn’t handle. She was only a child.”

  “I know you’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear. There are days when I think of nothing else. I have to make it right for her. I have to make what my son did right for that woman.”

  “Rossiter is a man now, Jasper. You can’t do everything for him. He has to take responsibility for his actions. I don’t want you being upset. Has something
happened that you haven’t told me?”

  “Yes, of course, something happened. Something always happens when Rossiter is in town. I thought I’d seen the last of him for some time to come, but it appears now that his mother has sent him packing. He came to see me today. As usual, we had a terrible row. You would not have been proud of me, Loretta.” There was such humility in his voice that Loretta’s heart turned over.

  “Whatever you did, you did for a reason. I don’t want to hear such things from you, Jasper. You are the kindest, gentlest man in the whole world. Now tell me what happened.”

  “Rossiter came to me for money. I gave him some. Not a lot, but enough for him to get by. He talked a lot, babbled would be more like it. He kept talking about his son and Callie. He talked a lot about Callie. He’s obsessed with her. When I asked him what he needed money for, he said to buy more art supplies. He’s going to have a show in some gallery. He said he hated coming to me for money and offered to pay me back when he got on his feet. Seeing his son for the first time that way was a terrible blow to him. I tried to understand. In some ways I do. Callie must have loved my son very much. Pride, Loretta, is such a terrible sin.”

  “Is there more, Jasper?”

  “A little. Rossiter brought two of his paintings to show me They were so breathtaking I can’t believe he painted them. I was shocked almost out of my shoes. I’m no art critic, but I’ve seen enough to know that what he did was very good. He brought a painting he did of the boy. Loretta, it was the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. What a lovely child our Rory was. What a man he could have been. I offered to buy the painting from him, but he wouldn’t part with it. I offered him a thousand dollars, Loretta, and he still wouldn’t sell it to me. He said there wasn’t enough money in the whole world to pay for that picture. That I have to respect. I only wish Callie could see it.”

  “What did you say to him, Jasper?”

  “I told him to go back to his painting. I told him that time would heal his wounds or at least scar them over so he can get on with his life. I believe that. Look at me. Look what you’ve done for me, my dear.”

  Loretta patted his hand and then reached for it and took it in her own. “What did I do except love you the way you deserve to be loved?”

  “For all my life I will be grateful to you. I love you the way a man is supposed to love a woman. We’re so good together, like two old shoes. I don’t mean to imply that you’re old, Loretta,” Jasper added hastily.

  “Darling man, I know exactly what you meant. The day you have to start explaining things to me is the day we’re going to be in trouble.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” Jasper said fondly. “I want you to become friends with Callie. She’s like a daughter to me, or was. There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for her. I want you to feel the same way. And with Byrch entering politics, she’s going to need a good friend, like you, Loretta. Sooner or later Byrch will invite us to his house for a dinner party now that the political camp is heating up. I don’t want to intrude on them until they both feel ready for us. We do take some getting used to, don’t we, my dear?”

  Loretta snuggled closer to Jasper to show her agreement.

  “I just know the two of you will be great friends. I just know it,” Jasper said.

  “Then we will be,” Loretta answered. She would make friends with a baboon if it would make Jasper happy. She knew she was going to like Callie Kenyon. She liked her as C. James, and now that she knew exactly who she was, she would like her even more.

  The warm, lazy days of June and July gave way to the dog days of August. The heat was blistering and the front pages of the newspapers echoed the general outcry for rain. The house on St. Luke’s Place was blissfully cool if she drew the drapes against the early morning sun. By afternoon, Edward opened the backdoor leading to her garden and lifted the parlor windows, and a pleasant breeze cooled her as she worked at the desk in Byrch’s study. It was usually late afternoon when Byrch returned home, and in order to be ready for him she awakened early to work on her columns and organize the home-delivery project.

  Since the first excitement over the victimizing of the Clarion’s newsboys, Callie’s column had dealt mostly with the sights and stories she and Byrch had discovered during their explorations. More often than not, her sharp eye and innate sympathy led her attention to the conditions of the poor and the injustices they suffered. She exposed the fact that chickens, meats, and in general all food stuffs were more expensive among the immigrant poor on the East Side than in fashionable neighborhoods. She was midway through a series decrying the exploitation of the working women who conducted cottage industries in their homes while tending to the needs of their children. Wages for piece work and sewing were considerably lower for the woman who was unable to go out to the shops or factories to accomplish the work she did in her own home. “These women have no recourse but to accept lower wages for identical work and are the victims not only of their circumstances but also of the workshop managements who prey upon them,” Callie wrote. Several examples to back her statements were published along with the names of the companies as well as their owners. She also praised those few places who held to fair business practices. But it was to the children running the streets and begging on corners that Callie’s eye most frequently turned.

  Callie had embarked upon a campaign to aid the plight of the children, and since her dealings with the newsboys for the home-delivery project, she realized how many of them were homeless and without any adult direction in their lives. She wrote about them, telling their stories in a straightforward tone tempered with sympathy. Through her efforts, a Mr. Charles Brace contacted her through Byrch. Mr. Brace’s chief interest was children. He had founded an organization known as the Children’s Aid Society and had already accomplished a great deal. The society’s first effort was to establish a workshop on Wooster Street where the boys could earn an honest penny at useful work, but Brace told Callie that the idea was proving to be a failure because of competition from private firms.

  It was Callie’s column that turned his attention to the plight of the newsboys of the city, “. . . those homeless, reckless, jolly bands of street arabs who are shrewd beyond their years but also energetic, persevering, and not without their instincts for honor and manliness.”

  Byrch, Callie, and Charles Brace were directing their energies to finding a loft and fitting it up as a dormitory for the boys, charging them a token price for bed and breakfast and offering free baths. They believed they would be able to open the doors for the first time next spring, and they intended to call it the Newsboys’ Lodging House. Mr. Brace was so optimistic that he was already planning an industrial school for girls, evening trade schools, and Sunday meetings. He was even looking into the idea of placing children in good homes out West.

  On a particularly hot day in late August, Callie sat at the desk watching the soft, white curtain billow in the humid draft. She felt hot and sticky and longed for a leisurely bath in Byrch’s tub. She dabbed at her brow and neck and then stared at the long line of numbers in her home-delivery ledger. She was irritated by the heat.

  On second thought irritation was too mild a word. Hurt, angry, wounded, was more like it. Powerful emotions. What in the name of God would she do without her work? Work had to be the greatest comfort known to man or woman. But work was done during the day to make the hours pass swiftly. It was the night hours, the dark hours, that deviled Callie. It seemed to her as soon as the sun set and dinner was over, Byrch dressed and went out—to political meetings, he said. Political meetings that Flanna Beauchamp attended—sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of one Phillip Horn, her frequent escort. Or so Bridget said when she wanted to press the thorn a little deeper into Callie’s side. And always she heard him come in during the wee hours of the morning. At times she swore she could smell perfume, but when she tried mentioning it discreetly to Edward, he would tell her it was the scent of the posies in the downstairs hallway that wafted
upward. She had never mentioned it a second time. She never mentioned a lot of things, like the way she ached and longed for Byrch to knock on her door. She would have settled for a bite, kick, and scratch with her losing the fight. Anything but this apathy she was living through.

  What good was success if you didn’t have someone you loved to share it with? What did it matter that half of New York City talked about C. James and her fascinating articles? What did that do for her during the long, lonely nights? She lost count of the times she had tiptoed across the hall and stood, poised to knock, and always at the last minute changed her mind. They had a bargain, a bargain she had insisted upon. Byrch was obeying it to the letter.

  Sometimes during the long nights, especially toward early morning, Callie would wake from a sound sleep, drenched with perspiration. Her first thought was always, had Byrch made love to another woman? Her jealousy was consuming her, threatening to destroy her, and yet she could do nothing: She had made the rules.

  What did Flanna Beauchamp look like? Crafty questioning of Edward produced few results. A beautiful, well-groomed lady was all Edward volunteered. It was like pulling teeth, but Callie managed to extract the fact that Flanna was knowledgeable about politics. And rumor had it that she had her eye on being a political wife. It didn’t matter who the politician was, as long as he was likely to move up the ladder to the governorship.

  Bridget had been only too helpful in describing Flanna’s wardrobe and the contents of her house, plus what she imagined was in her bank account. And she always ended her description with “Flanna can have her choice of suitors; men just seem to drop at her feet.”